by M. J. Ford
Either way, she wasn’t sure why it left an odd taste in her mouth. The boy had lost his mum and dad – having a flash car was hardly compensation.
* * *
The clock in her car read 10.19 as she pulled up at St Aldates. They had Blake Matthis in their custody for another forty-one minutes. Carrick took George Dimitriou aside immediately and closed his office door. Alice Reeves was on the phone, but when she saw Jo she beckoned her over. ‘The inspector on the case has just walked in, let me transfer you.’ She put the call on hold. ‘Ma’am, got a teacher of Megan Bailey on the phone. She saw the appeal.’
Jo’s heart quickened a fraction. A lead – any lead – would be something.
‘Put her through,’ said Jo, taking off her coat. She didn’t have long if she still wanted to talk to Blake, but she could ascertain quickly enough if the caller had useful information.
‘Hello,’ she said, picking up the phone and sliding into a chair. With her free hand, she opened her notebook. ‘My name is Jo Masters – I’m the lead investigator.’
The woman, who sounded timid, introduced herself as Claire Arnold.
‘You’re a teacher, my colleague told me?’
‘Used to be,’ said the woman. ‘I’m a SEN coordinator at Marsh Hill now.’
‘And you know Megan Bailey?’
‘I think I do, yes. And I don’t think she killed that man.’
‘Megan is just a person of interest,’ said Jo.
‘Yes, I saw the appeal,’ said the woman on the other end of the phone, ‘but there’s a rumour going round the kids here this morning that she killed him. Is that what you think?’
News travels fast, thought Jo. Wait until they hear what happened to her parents …
‘We’re not really sure what happened,’ said Jo honestly. ‘Can you tell me a little about Megan? What is she like?’
‘She was always troubled,’ said the educational needs officer. ‘Angry too, at times. She didn’t really make friends for long, and she definitely had problems with authority figures. She ended up in my office on a number of occasions, mainly when she was disruptive. It was fairly obvious she had an addiction, but we’re strict here, and she was never found with anything on site. If she had, it would have been an immediate exclusion. She used to bunk off a lot. Days at a time, or she’d just disappear in the middle of the day.’
‘Was she ever violent?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Arnold. ‘She was brighter than that. I know it sounds silly, but she wasn’t a bad person. She just … wore a lot of armour.’
‘And you said she used to be truant?’
‘Well, that’s why I’m calling,’ said Arnold. ‘I felt things had changed. Recently. She came to school the week before last, for the first time in a fortnight or so. She was like a different person. She actually looked happy. Healthy.’
‘You think she’d kicked her habit?’
‘I’m not an expert, but I believe so, yes.’
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Jo, though it was hardly conclusive. Her eyes drifted to the clock. She was thinking about winding up the call.
‘There was an incident though,’ continued Arnold, ‘that afternoon after school, right at the gates. There was some sort of fight. Megan had an argument with a couple of men. One ended up hitting the other.’
Now she had Jo’s attention. ‘Could you describe either of them?’
‘I didn’t see it first-hand, only the aftermath. One of the men got into his car and drove off. I think he was Japanese.’
Jo’s hand tightened on the phone.
‘Might he have been Korean?’
‘I suppose so. Sorry, I know it’s probably not very helpful.’
‘Did anyone report it to the police?’
‘I tried to speak to Megan. She just said he was her ex-boyfriend. She didn’t want a fuss, and she insisted she didn’t want her parents involved.’
Jo looked up at the clock. 10.25. Blake was almost home free.
‘Thank you very much, Claire,’ she said. Oxford’s East Asian population wasn’t huge – a few hundred people at most – and it was tempting to jump to conclusions. ‘This is very important – can you recall anything about the vehicle?’
As she spoke, she accessed the Xan Do files and brought up a wide shot of the crime scene, with Xan sitting back in the white BMW.
‘Only that it was white,’ said Arnold. ‘I’m afraid I’m not really a car person.’
‘That’s perfect,’ said Jo. ‘Just perfect.’
* * *
‘Hi, Blake. Do you remember me?’
He looked up sullenly. ‘Should I?’ The kid was tired, she could see. Beside him, his minder Jordan Tomasz looked angry.
‘You almost flattened me on your bike three days ago.’
The flicker of a smile crossed Blake’s features. ‘Nah. I’d remember.’
Jo smiled back. ‘Listen, Blake – I had to beg my boss to let me talk to you. And we don’t have long, because they’re going to cut you loose in about’ – she looked at her watch – ‘twenty-six minutes.’
Blake shared an incredulous glance with Tomasz, as if to say, What the fuck is this bitch on?
‘Do you have anything to ask the lad?’ said his companion.
Jo turned to him. ‘You’re a family friend, right?’
‘Just here to serve Blake’s interests,’ said Tomasz. ‘Make sure you don’t stitch him up.’
‘Only Blake’s interests?’ said Jo.
Tomasz looked at his watch. ‘The fella with the lip-fluff thrown himself in front of a bus, has he?’
‘My colleague thinks you’re a killer, Blake.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘Believe it or not, I want to help you,’ said Jo. ‘And your mother.’
‘This has got nothing to do with Trace,’ said Tomasz.
‘I think we all know that’s not true,’ said Jo. ‘Ms Grimshaw could easily have been killed last night.’
Blake was silent.
‘I need to talk to you about Megan Bailey,’ said Jo.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘How well do you know her?’
‘Who?’
‘You were at her house. She’s the daughter of Mr and Mrs Bailey, who were killed.’
Tomasz shook his head. ‘His phone was at her house.’
Jo blew out her cheeks. ‘We’re still going with that line, are we? Okay, you’ve heard of the food chain, right? Little things eaten by bigger things, et cetera?’
Blake nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘Well Megan Bailey is what we call the bottom of the food chain. She’s the smallest fish in the sea. There are loads like her, but they get eaten in their thousands. In the narcotics trade, they’re the addicts. No one gives a shit about addicts, but without them, the whole thing falls apart, just like the food chain collapses without the little fish.’
Blake waited for her to continue.
‘Xan knew Megan. It looks like he was her dealer and maybe her boyfriend too. Slightly higher up the food chain. We were watching Xan. And he must have had a feeling, because he moved a substantial stash of narcotics from his parents’ warehouse to Megan’s house. They were away and the place they lived, well, it’s the last place the police look for drugs, isn’t it? This ringing any bells?’
Blake stuck out his bottom lip, just like Theo when she held a toy out of reach, though the teen was considerably less endearing. Jo tried not to think about her son – he’d been fractious again that morning, clinging to her at the nursery.
‘You know what I couldn’t work out? Why you were so thorough in your search downstairs, but upstairs was practically untouched. And you didn’t even think about the summer house, which is where the stash actually was.’
Tomasz was shaking his head and smirking, but Blake, she sensed, was actually listening.
‘Sorry,’ said Jo. ‘I sometimes think aloud. My colleague, Sergeant Dimitriou, thinks that you killed Mr and Dr Bailey. For wha
t it’s worth, I don’t agree. It takes serious commitment to cut somebody’s throat. It’s not like in the movies – you have to go deep. There are tendons to get through, you know? People think it’s just a quick slit and all that spray, but it’s not like that at all. It’s more like sawing, and you need a sharp blade. They’d have been wriggling too, screaming for mercy. Especially after the first one was done.’
Now she had both their attention.
‘Can I give you my theory?’
Blake looked at his watch.
‘Xan fucked up somehow. Either he told someone about the drugs he was selling for your dad, or more likely Megan did. They killed Xan and went to get the drugs, but they didn’t know exactly where to find them. In the meantime, you panicked, rang your dad, and he told you to get there and find them first. You did what he said, but you got a lot more than you bargained for. You searched downstairs, and went into that cellar. Two dead bodies, probably already beginning to stink. And you did what any of us would. You got the hell out. And though you’d taken the precaution of wearing gloves, you were still dumb enough to use your phone again, right then and there. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here now.’
Blake’s eyes became a stare of dead malice. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Jo. ‘But if you didn’t do it, you need to worry about who did. Everyone thinks they’re the big fish, untouchable. Xan thought he was, but there’s always someone higher up the food chain, swimming in darker waters. Someone who’s okay with screaming, and tendons, and blood. A big shark that eats little fish like Xan. And like you. And, going by last night’s events, your mum too. You thought you could hide, but you can’t.’
‘I can look after my mum.’
‘How, Blake? You can hardly put her on the back of your dirt bike and ride off into the sunset. You can’t go home. Whoever your dad owes money to, they know where you live.’
‘His dad will make sure nothing bad happens to Blake or Trace,’ said Tomasz.
‘I beg to differ,’ said Jo. ‘Blake’s father wasn’t there last night putting out the fire, was he? If it hadn’t been for that poor dog …’
Blake looked up. ‘Niko?’
‘You didn’t know?’ said Jo. ‘I’m afraid Niko didn’t pull through. Brave little thing though. Loyal.’
‘It’s just a dog,’ said Tomasz. Blake looked across at his companion, who must have caught something in the teenager’s expression. ‘You can get another one.’
Blake continued to stare at the older man, then said quietly. ‘I want a few minutes on my own.’
‘No way,’ said Tomasz. ‘I’m staying here.’
Jo stood. ‘Mr Tomasz, give Blake some space please.’
The guy remained seated, as if considering his options. Really, though, there weren’t any. An interviewee, even a juvenile one, could dismiss an appropriate adult at any time.
‘Blake?’ he said.
‘Fuck off,’ said Blake sullenly.
Tomasz stood. ‘You can’t trust her, Blake. Bitch’ll do anything she can to make you talk.’
‘I can turn off the recording Blake,’ said Jo. ‘Nothing you say will be admissible in court. It’s just a chat.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Tomasz. ‘In ten minutes, you’re free to leave Blake. Don’t say anything else.’
‘In ten minutes, I’ll walk Blake out the door myself,’ said Jo. ‘That’s a promise.’
* * *
Jo had turned off the recording. Not just because she needed Blake to trust her, but because he wasn’t the fish she was trying to catch.
‘I need my mum to be safe,’ said Blake. His demeanour had changed considerably since Tomasz had left the room.
‘We can arrange that,’ said Jo. ‘But you have to help us. Do you know who might have carried out the arson attack?’
‘I’ve got a good idea, yeah,’ said Blake.
‘Who?’
‘I’ve never met him personally. Xan made all the payments.’ He paused. before adding. ‘Dad didn’t want me involved.’
‘And do you think it was the same individual who killed the Baileys?’
‘I don’t fucking know,’ said Blake. ‘Can’t see why they’d try to nick their own drugs. If that fucking slag went behind …’ He trailed off, venom spent.
‘Megan was Xan’s girlfriend, we heard,’ said Jo.
‘She used to fuck him, yeah. I told him not to. It wasn’t good business. You could see she wasn’t right.’
‘In what way?’
‘I dunno. Just sort of dead inside.’
‘Did you ever have sexual relations with her?’ asked Jo.
‘No way. She’s not my type.’
She’s missed out there, thought Jo.
‘Do you know where she is now?’
Blake shook his head. ‘I aint seen her for a while.’ He gave Jo a forceful stare. ‘That’s the truth. I told Xan not to use her place, but he said we could trust her. And it was empty.’
‘But she was there.’
‘No. Her folks were away. She was with friends or something.’
With Harry.
‘So what went wrong?’
For a moment, he gnashed his teeth and screwed up his fists, like he could see Megan Bailey in front of him and wanted to tear her to pieces. ‘She said she was finished with him, and the drugs. She wanted him to get rid of the stash at her house. We were supposed to be going to get them, me and Xan, that night.’
‘The night he was shot?’
Blake nodded briskly. ‘Fucking bitch sold us out. Put someone onto us.’
‘It appears so,’ said Jo. And they seemed such a sweet couple.
‘So when you found Xan’s body, you ran?’
‘What was I supposed to do? He was dead.’
‘And you really think Megan knew Xan was going to be killed?’
‘She was fucking cold, innit? She was fucked up.’
‘It doesn’t sound like that,’ said Jo. ‘It’s sounds like she was getting clean.’
‘I dunno,’ said Blake, distantly. ‘Reckon that fucked her up worse.’
JAMES
FIVE WEEKS EARLIER
The small café was directly opposite the school gates. On the table in front of him, a cold cup of coffee and a folded newspaper showing a crossword half finished. The paper he’d found in a bin. He wasn’t interested in puzzles. His eyes were on the gates as the kids in their blue uniforms poured out.
He’d been in Oxford for two weeks, putting together the pieces of a temporary life. The first couple of nights had been spent on the street, until a bit of intelligence had sent him to a squat in the Headington area of the city. Six or seven drunks in a two-bedroom house that had been condemned. No heating, but at least a supply of running water. In the day he begged outside one of the colleges, and it was better money than he’d ever made in Manchester. It had provided him with enough money to purchase some of the materials he needed. The rest, when it was safe, he’d stolen. Hardware stores were often easy pickings. Local places, tight aisles packed with stock, one guy running things, no cameras, and no suspicion of a slightly scruffy customer carrying a bag. Buy the cheapest pack of nails, and load the rest of the ingredients into the sack. Putting it all together back at the house wouldn’t be a problem. Most of the residents couldn’t recognise their own parents, let alone an explosive device. That was all a last resort, of course. If things went south. First things first, he had to find her.
A little research back at the Manchester library had given him the locations of all nine Oxford secondary schools, and they were circled on the streetmap he’d stolen from the local charity shop. One day at each, morning and afternoon, positioned close enough to see the kids as they entered and left. Boring as hell, but necessary. It wasn’t a perfect system. Some kids arrived by bus, carried straight into the school grounds. Sometimes there was an influx and he struggled to catch every face. And if that day she was ill or absent … Still, it was the
only system he had. Any other method was apt to draw attention.
Marsh Hill was the sixth school he’d cased out, and one of the easier ones. A couple had been tricky even to get close, stuck out in residential areas where the sight of a lone man would have sent a dozen eagle-eyed parents reaching for their phones to ring the police. He’d taken more care there, armed with alibis – that his car had run out of petrol nearby and he was looking for a garage, that he’d lost his dog, or his keys. Most of the time, though, he went unchallenged except for the occasional odd look. There’d been a more direct confrontation about a week ago, a fleshy-faced dad in sports gear demanding, ‘What exactly do you think you’re doing, hanging around here?’ In that case, he’d resisted the urge to break the man’s jaw, and said he was a former student, arrived early to visit an old teacher, Mrs Edwards. He figured the name and his age were vague enough to allay suspicion. Luckily for both of them, it didn’t escalate, and the man actually apologised.
He barely remembered his own school days, but Mrs Edwards had been a real teacher of his, back in Manchester. One of the few who’d treated him with respect. Not a busybody, or a bully – just someone who knew not to push his buttons.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
The waitress smiled.
You could leave me the fuck alone, he thought. Eyes back on the school.
‘No, thank you.’
And then, just like that, there she was. His heart felt like a balloon, suddenly inflated, rising under his ribcage. He couldn’t breathe. He stood, leg catching the table and rattling the empty cup in its saucer.
‘Are you all right?’ said the waitress. He picked up his bag and walked towards the door, eyes fixed on the girl leaving the school gates on her own. ‘Hey, you need to pay!’
James fished in his pocket for a couple of quid, and tossed them on the table.
She had changed, of course. Changed almost completely. Her hair was blond. Her face thinner. But it was her. He knew it.
He rushed to the door, and went out into the street, walking parallel to the girl. He wanted to call out, but not to scare her. She looked to be in her own world, walking fast, bag slung over her shoulder.